


Friction

by OurLittleSecretOkay



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 07:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurLittleSecretOkay/pseuds/OurLittleSecretOkay
Summary: A secret Santa gift for the lovely SofterSoftest, feat. terrible things and ways bad situations could always get worse





	Friction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SofterSoftest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterSoftest/gifts).



“We don't have time for this!” Violet could hear the encroaching desperation in Olaf's voice as they ran. The bald associate simply grunted in reply, very much occupied with trying his damndest to hold onto her. Kicking, she tried to break free, her feet uselessly swinging in the air.   
“Put me down!” she landed a solid blow on his shin, felt herself almost drop.   
“There's not enough room!” someone else called. She didn't bother checking who, trying to kick the same spot again. If she could get him to stumble, it might be enough to get herself to fall. If she could fall, she could run, and if she ran-   
“Make room!” A shrill voice rang out. Esmé. Violet kicked harder, almost landed on her feet, but she was already being shoved into the car. Frantic, she braced her limbs against the frame, locked her elbows so that they couldn't get her in. She only needed to stall, the police- Her rapid thoughts froze. The police. The police were useless to her; she'd be arrested along with the rest of them.   
All of the shouts were mingling into noise as she closed her eyes, tried to think, but the entire world was shrieking now, and she was desperate to breathe. Terrified, she forced a sharp breath into her lungs, almost choked on the scent of smoke. Panicked, she reopened her eyes in alarm. It took another moment for her to remember the fire, realize that was where the smoke was pouring from; at times it felt like the scent clung to her, never to be washed out.   
“Give it here!”   
She was tugged sharply away from the car only to be spun around and pulled in. In the chaos of her unwieldy fight, arms wrapped around her, pinning her elbows to her sides as she screamed a shrill sound that did nothing but further the pain in her own head.   
“Oh, for god's sake-” a hand came up to cover her mouth as she was thrown back with the force of the car taking off. 

They were talking, she knew they were talking, but the only sound she could hear was a high, persistent ringing. The people outside became a blur as they sped onto the road, away from the flames. She wanted to roll down the window, to scream her apologies, tell them that she was sorry, she didn't mean to do it, not really. She was crying now, her vision comprised entirely of swimming shapes of light and shadow made up entirely of too much red. Unable to wipe her eyes, she simply stared out the window in horror as the tragedy unfolded. 

“Are you quite finished?” The hand was pulled from her face. In mute despair, she didn't respond, staring straight before her as Esmé laughed, her mouth much, much too red. Like a vampire, Violet thought.   
“You should be thanking us, really; hospitals have just gone out,” her lip curled into what appeared to be an approximation of a smile, poorly reconstructed. “If I were you I would-”  
“That's a terrible color on you.” It was a insanely vapid thing to say, but she successfully hit a nerve. Esmé frowned, turning around once more.  
“Why couldn't we take the one who can't talk?”  
“Because,” an uncomfortably familiar voice growled, “beggars can't be choosers and we only need one pretty little murderer.”  
“I'm not a murderer!” she turned her head to the side, practically spitting. For a moment she was confused, glancing around at a sea of faces that weren't Count Olaf's. But then she heard him laugh, and with a plummet of her gut, she realized he was, in fact, beneath her. Despite it all, despite the imminent danger and the terror and the distance, all at once she was back on that table in the hospital, back beneath his hands, unable to move. The hospital was gone, she told herself; the table was gone. And yet, her cheeks still burned and she could feel the tight leather on her wrists holding her down as he leered above her, brushing the hair from her cheek as he smiled, gloating and almost-satiated. She could hear the same smile in his voice now, could hear the teeth in it.   
“Are you quite certain?” he purred, still holding her in a tight bear hug. “Last I heard, you heartlessly killed poor Count Olaf back in that bird-obsessed village. May he rest in peace.”  
“Rest in prosperity!”  
“Reside in… plenty of cash!” The troop lauded their own less than clever additions to his joke.   
His face was much too close to hers, and as all the others laughed, she shut her eyes tight, as if that could make this any less real, could make her any less guilty. The fear in her chest squeezed her heart, made her bones feel curiously soft. She should be afraid; fear was reasonable, rational. Of all the things to feel, fear was perhaps the only rational reaction. But as much as she was afraid, there was something else as well, something that had settled between her legs long ago, long before she even knew it was there. It was only recently that it had awoken, and there, in the back seat, with the grip of panic tight around her neck, it crawled out of bed, stretched its arms, and made her belly its home.   
“You can't lie for much longer. You'll get caught,” she felt the tremble in her voice, hoped he couldn't hear it.  
“Yes, I'm sure,” he pulled her back so that she was flush with his chest. “Because that's worked out so well for you before.”   
This wasn't the time for this, she reminded her fluttering pulse, lips pursed as the troop laughed. The bald man took a sharp turn to the left and she dug her fingers into Olaf's legs reflexively. If he felt it, he didn't respond beyond his own reflex to tighten his grip.   
“You're hurting me,” she managed to spit out, pulling her shoulders up defensively.   
“You're hurting me,” at least two of the troop members spat back, imitating her in a singsong nasal voice as the rest laughed. Throwing her shoulder forward, she tried to at least loosen his grip.   
“Careful,” bringing one hand up to pinch her jaw, Olaf snarled, “or I will hurt you.” His lips touched her ear as he growled and she shivered, told herself it was from her nerves. “Goddamn it,” he pinched her, “can't you sit still?”   
“Let me go!” she threw her shoulder forward again.   
“Go where, exactly? Are you planning on climbing out the window?”  
“She can come over here,” the man with hooks for hands smiled, winked in her direction. It might be her imagination, but she could swear Olaf's hands flexed taunt as he laughed. Not wanting to tempt anything, she quieted down. Satisfied that she was adequately terrified, he did finally relax his grip, pulling his hands back so that he was holding her elbows.   
Silent, she stared back out the window, having no words left to say. Her body positively ached with exhaustion but she didn't dare sleep, not like this. As the noise dissipated into silence, the lack of sound weighed heavy in such a small space. All of the forced mirth left them, but no one dared look back. She had a feeling they never did. 

As the car pealed out along the empty highways of the Hinterlands, she fought to keep her thoughts from vacant wandering. If she wasn't careful, the fear would suffocate her. What she needed now were facts, not what-ifs. As the miles ticked out behind them, she counted the facts against her fingers.   
She was alive. She was very much trapped, but she was alive. She was in Count Olaf's very literal clutches, but as a result, she could be positive her siblings weren't. He didn't know where they were any more than she did. There was a possibility for safety in that uncertainty. Unless they were captured by the police. Even then, they were probably better off than she was. Behind her, Count Olaf grumbled, fidgeting.  
“You're heavier than you look,” he muttered quietly.   
“Then let me go,” she hissed back between her teeth. The car hit a bump and she braced her hand against the door as he gripped her hips, pulling her back towards himself.   
“Damn useless road,” the bald man muttered. “What's the purpose of even having it?”   
“Keep complaining, I'm certain it will help,” Esmé snapped, irate. 

As the car went over another pothole, she felt Olaf's fingers dig into her as he breathed in sharply. Again, she felt her body flush, couldn't believe her own horrid timing. Even as every moment carried her further and further away from safety, all she could reliably concentrate on was the way his hands dug into her hips, holding her down. She balled her own hands into fists as the car bounced, the road turning into a dirt path. Pinching her eyes shut, she reprimanded herself for the buzzing that swelled where he pressed his hands to her, unsuccessfully trying to hold her still. And yet, as much as she tried to repress it, there was a very, very large part of her that wanted him to lean forward that inch and kiss her neck. A particularly rough rut sent her backwards against him, and as his hands closed over her abdomen, she felt the heat of his breath against the side of her face. Embarrassed, she tried to shift forward again, painfully aware of just how thin the hospital gown was as the heat of his hands infected her belly.   
“Stop. Moving,” he hissed, voice low in her ear.   
“I'm trying, but-” as the car rattled on, she almost bit her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to make him angry; she'd seen his anger enough to know it was not something she wished to encounter. But then he leaned his chin against her shoulder, and groaning, took in a sharp breath of air. 

The very slow realization drained down her spine, zipping into every pocket of her body as she felt his hands flex. Reciprocally, she unfurled her fists, trying to remain casual as she breathed slowly, painstakingly. As the car jostled them, she felt the heat of his breath on her neck. With the next bump, she let her hips roll back, her spine curving as she pressed against his hands. Still staring out the window at the unchanging landscape, she strained to see his reflection in the glass, hated the fact that she couldn't read his face. Again, she unwillingly conjured the image of him above her, his fingers touching her face, brushing at her hair. Again, the desire fell through her blood like venom, made the air thick in her lungs as he hammered away at the cracks in her foundation. 

His arm came around her waist slowly, slinking across her frame, pressing her back as she bounced to the stuttering rocking of the car. She wanted to open her knees, straddle his thighs, feel him between her legs. As his grasp closed over her waist, he groaned, the sound low in his throat. 

“How much further?” one of the white-faced women complained.   
“We've been traveling forever,” the other chimed in.   
“It's been an hour,” the bald man glanced in the rearview mirror.  
“Why can't we go someplace nice for once?”  
“I haven't seen a liquor store in miles!”   
“It's a regular wasteland!”   
“It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better,” Olaf snapped, “so I'd suggest you get comfortable.”   
“Why not throw the girl in the trunk, make things just a bit easier?”  
Violet was about to open her mouth to reply when he slapped his hand across it, moving her head aside, “And give her the opportunity to escape? You've seen these cockroaches’ ability to survive. No, she doesn't leave my sight.”  
“Darling, I have to agree with them,” Esmé glanced in the rearview mirror. “Why not move our focus to the sugar bowl, and-”  
“No more talk in front of the captive,” he spit, yanking Violet back as if that would keep her from hearing. As he tugged her, she gripped the outsides of his thighs with her hands, trying to balance. Suddenly, everyone in the car was thrown to one side as the road cracked uneven. She felt his hand grip the inside of her thigh in an instantaneous reaction, his fingers dimpling the skin. As everyone breathed a sigh of relief, he left it there, a daringly damning citation against the both of them. Surreptitiously, she glanced around, tried to see if anyone had noticed.   
Evidently used to these long trips, all the others had resettled back into the silence of whatever the hell they were doing before.   
With each bump, Olaf drew his hand higher up her thigh, leaving an evaporating trail of heat in his wake. Unable to contain the pressure in her chest, she squirmed, a whimper catching behind her tongue.   
“Quiet,” his grip over her mouth tightened as he shushed her, his lips touching her ear. Gradually he continued, letting his hand slide up until it was pressing to the side of her breast.   
With each crack in the road, he rubbed against her, just enough that she could feel it but not enough for the others to see. Each passing road stretched her patience, forced her to focus all her energy on not losing control; she knew the moment she gave an inch, she was done for. She could feel him now, could feel a stiffness beneath her, pressing against her legs. 

As they rocketed over a particularly craggy path, the scenery changing from flat nothingness to climbing mountains, she was surprisingly grateful for the hand still over her mouth, no longer trusting her breath not to betray her. As the road tilted upwards, he took advantage of a sharp turn to force his foot between hers. She fought to keep her knees pressed together, not daring to even imagine the consequences. If anyone saw… Digging his fingers into her side, he leaned close to her ear again.  
“Give me what I want, Violet,” as he pressed harder against her leg, she shuddered, wincing. “Give me what I want. You know how this ends. Give it to me.”   
Unable to speak, she whimpered, letting her tongue touch his fingers.   
“Be a good girl and I won't make you share,” he growled, taking advantage of a particularly vicious bump to grind himself against her. Unfortunately, it also allowed him to force her legs open. It was only a bit, but it was enough to allow him to then force his knees between hers. His palm tightened over her mouth, forcing quiet her groan as she bounced atop him.   
“My god, we're going to go clear off the edge!” Esmé spat, gripping the handle above the door.  
“I'm a good driver,” the bald man glanced over at her, causing the car to veer aside. Everyone screamed, grabbing whatever they could as he over-corrected back onto course.   
“I swear to GOD, if I die in these culture-forsaken mountains-” Esmé grit her teeth.   
“Slow and steady!” one of the white-faced women shouted, clutching the other.   
“Do any of YOU want to try driving you idiots?” the bald man shouted back.   
As the car burst into scattered yells, Olaf leaned in close again, his breath hot on her cheek.  
“Keep those legs spread for me,” he murmured. Nodding ever so slightly, she whined, glad that the noise could fade into the general cacophony.   
As the car rocked back and forth, she held onto the outsides of his legs, trying to keep silent as he held onto her, keeping her as tight to his own hips as he could. Even with both their bodies braced, every bump in the road created more friction, made her flush. More than anything, she wanted to moan, to let the tightly-coiled frustration inside of her unfurl. Her arms shook, jaw clenched tight as he rubbed against her, the background chatter of the car horribly loud in her pounding head. 

As if sensing her looming break, he quickly re-wrapped his arm about her, pulling her tight to his chest, “Careful, Orphan; don't go giving away the game.”   
“What was that, boss?” The man with hooks for hands leaned over, looking at them.  
Terrifyingly smoothly, Olaf smiled, tapped his fingers against her cheek, “I'm getting our dear guest's opinion on her accommodations once we've gotten the fortune. Tell me, what do you think is better; drowning or freezing?”   
To Violet's horror, a few associates actually voted. While most were fans of allowing her to freeze to death, a few made convincingly terrifying arguments for drowning. All the while, he was drumming his fingers against her, nodding contemplatively while making sure she felt his arousal beneath her with every bump in the road. As hard as she tried to stay still, the car wouldn't let her, and so she listened to the troop discuss the best ways to kill her as her captor rocked between her legs. It was all too much, and so as he held her, she began to cry silently, hating the mounting need destroying her from the inside out.  
“Oh dear, you've made her cry now,” Esmé pretended to pout through a gleeful smile. As everyone laughed, Violet looked away, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears. Esmé clicked her tongue, “Children are so much work. Honestly, I don't see why we don't just drop her off one of these cliffs and get it done with.”  
“Be patient, Dearest,” Olaf brushed his hand down Violet's arm, still holding her so that she couldn't move. “Good things come to those who wait. Isn't that right, Orphan?” he let his voice drop at the question. As the car began to fill with chatter once more, he kissed behind her ear, let his tongue slide over the skin. “They always come.”   
She dug her nails into his legs. Now that she had begun crying, she was utterly unable to stop.   
“Do you want to come for me, Violet?”   
Horrified at the immediate flip of her gut, she tried not to remember that night not so long ago as she would like, when she'd imagined a moment just like this, longed for it even, brought it to life with the tips of her fingers.   
“Answer the question, Violet,” his voice dropped to a growl as he tightened his grip.   
Undone, she nodded her head ever so slightly, damning herself entirely.   
“Good,” he purred, leaning back once more. Shaking, she let him shift her to the side so that she was balanced on one thigh, her leg still hiding his erection. As the turbulent drive ricocheted them around, his leg pressed against her. She suspected he was secretly bouncing his knee more than necessary just for the sake of cruelty. As she stared at her kneecaps, she felt awkwardly aware of just how vulnerable she was. Closing her eyes, she let the tears fall off her cheeks as she tried not to think about how desperately she wanted him to reach between her legs and end this torture. She wanted him to bend her forward over his knees, wanted to scream out her frustration as he let her finish, wanted the car to be empty of everyone who wasn't him. She pictured him turning her around so that she could straddle his hips, pinning her down on the bench seat beneath him, tossing her easily and hiking up her skirt. And then she remembered the feeling of him grabbing her from behind, forcing her into the car, and her legs began to shake.  
“Good girl,” he groaned in her ear. “See? Am I really so bad?”   
She wanted to nod emphatically, to dive out the window, but more than that she wanted him to slide her back to the center of his lap, let her finish right there atop him. 

“Is she still crying?” She could hear the disgust in Esmé's voice. “My god. Just how long are we supposed to endure this?”  
“It's not much longer now,” there was a strain in his voice, though she couldn't tell if it was irritation or exhaustion. “Just be patient.”  
“I've had enough with patience. Really,” Esmé clicked her tongue, sighing.   
“It'll all be worth it. Once it's over, the world is ours for the taking.”  
“I don't need the world, just the sugar bowl.”  
“And you shall have it, Sweetness,” Olaf grit his teeth. “Whatever we want, it's ours.” As his motley of accomplices cheered and laughed, he let his hand slip from her arm to her abdomen, holding her close, “And I always get what I want, don't I, Violet?”   
She screwed her eyes shut, let her body fall limp in his grasp as she bit her tongue, centered herself in the pain.   
“And you're certain she'll know-”  
“Never steered me wrong before.” Violet wondered if the others could hear the strain in his voice. “When we get there, you can go on ahead; I'll make sure the accommodations are to your standard, Darling. Tents are still in, aren't they?”  
“You expect me to leave you alone with some fortune-telling floozy?” Esmé pursed her lips. “Gold-diggers, all of them. Why, the last time-”  
“I only need a moment with our esteemed guest,” he winced, still forcing his face into a grating smile, “before any of you get the chance to cut out her tongue. You can get started asking after the sugar bowl, and the rest of you can go ahead and get all of the liquor you can find; a celebration is in order.”  
Despite the still-present dampness on their merriment, such an idea put them all at ease. Even Esmé smiled, placing a hand on his knee before turning around again.   
“Yes, a celebration to be sure,” he purred, pinching Violet's cheeks. “And who knows. Maybe our luck is changing after all. You were right, Orphan. We all finally get what we deserve, in the end.” Subtly, he kissed her salt-stained cheek, gave a particularly vicious thrust of his leg, “Isn't that nice?”


End file.
